


dark dreams

by frockbot



Series: Tricksters [4]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Comfort, Established Relationship, He Knows What He's Talking About, M/M, Nightmares, Persona 5: The Royal, Persona 5: The Royal Spoilers, Post-Canon, Trauma, and references sexual assault between minors, first chapter has blood violence and gore, headcanon that ren is studying to be a therapist, second chapter has sexual assault between adults in a dream, so when he says akechi needs therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25477633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frockbot/pseuds/frockbot
Summary: At this point, both Ren and Akechi are pretty used to nightmares. Most of the time, they don’t even wake up afterward. How bad would a “bad dream” have to be to leave them cold and shaking?Pretty bad.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: Tricksters [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765963
Comments: 6
Kudos: 196





	1. ren

**Author's Note:**

> **cw:** blood, violence, gore (in a dream)
> 
> _[Our love will see us through these dark, dark days](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCzCL13mEZ8) _
> 
> _[Til it lights the way back home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCzCL13mEZ8) _

Ren counted himself lucky that he didn’t have many nightmares.

Sure, the odd one surfaced from time to time. Sometimes he dreamed about the usual scrambled mundanity: going to class and realizing his term paper was due yesterday, for example. Other times, he dreamed about Shido, or Yaldabaoth, or even Akechi, spitting venom, trying to hurt him or someone he cared about. The latter had been more common since the final fight against Nyarlathotep, and bloodier to boot; but usually Ren realized that what was happening wasn’t real, and was able to break free before he got in too deep.

That was not the case tonight.

Tonight, Joker dodged another swing, Akechi’s saber crackling as it struck the ground in a shower of sparks. None of Joker’s Personas had been able to land a hit so far, and neither had he, with gun or dagger. Akechi’s teeth were bared in a bloodthirsty rictus, his shoulders loose and his movements jerky, because he wasn’t himself: Nyarlathotep had possessed him somehow, dyeing his eyes bright red and turning him back into the Black Mask. Joker couldn’t get through to him, couldn’t strike him, was running out of options—

—and out of time, because his back was suddenly against a wall, and Akechi was upon him, and a sickening, terrible pain ripped a scream from Joker’s mouth as Akechi’s claws sank into his stomach, twisted, wrenched backward. Joker _felt_ his organs shifting, felt cold air where it shouldn’t have been, where it should never never never have been, felt a strange, wet weight slap against his legs; and his knees gave out, fog filling his brain—

—he lay on his back, and Akechi leaned over him, pulling off his visor and Ren’s mask, catching Ren’s mouth in his own. Ren gasped, fisted his hand in Akechi’s collar, drew him down to savor the heat of him, the wiry strength of his body—

Akechi’s mouth tasted like metal, too slick and too hot. Ren drew back, and when Akechi smiled, rivulets of blood seeped between his teeth and coursed down his chin. Ice crackled in Ren’s spine. He looked down, bit back a cry: it was _Akechi’s_ stomach laid open, _his_ intestines spread like scarlet ribbons across Ren’s hips, soaking through to his skin, filling his nose with the foul smell of death—

Ren opened his eyes to a darkened room. Before he could comprehend what had happened, he felt the suffocating, viscous heat still clinging to his torso. Whimpering, he sat up, squirmed away, but it followed him, sticking his pajamas to his—

Oh. His pajamas.

“Ren?” Akechi said, lifting his head, immediately conscious and coherent as always.

It wasn’t blood: it was sweat. Ren was soaked with it; the sheets where he’d lain were puckered and damp. He pushed his hair off his sticky forehead, swiped at a trickle as it spilled down his temple.

Then his gut clenched, and saliva flooded his mouth, coated his tongue. No _no_ no no no. He was not going to hurl all over Akechi’s bed.

“Bathroom,” he managed, scrambling up, stubbing his toe on Akechi’s desk in his haste. Cursing, he hopped one-footed the rest of the way across the tiny room, closed the bathroom door, barely knelt in time to empty his stomach into the toilet. (They’d eaten Chinese. What a waste.)

He felt like he heaved for hours, long after all of his delicious dinner was gone. By the end he was hacking up spittle, his neck and shoulders seizing with the effort. He was swimming in his pajamas, the fabric moist and slippery against his skin. Maybe he should shower before he went back to bed. He felt disgusting; he couldn’t imagine how he smelled.

That was when the chills set in. Ren hunched there, cheek flattened against the toilet seat, nose tingling with the smell of vomit. His mouth tasted sour, felt scalded, but that was better than bloody.

He couldn’t shower. He didn’t trust himself to stay upright for that long. And taking a bath now, in the middle of the night, seemed absurd. Ren levered himself slowly to his feet, tottered over to the sink. He cranked on the faucet—it never ran warm, which suited him fine—and stuck his head underneath it, scrubbing his face, his neck, his hair with icy water. Then he shucked his shirt, dried off, and brushed his teeth.

When Ren emerged, Akechi was sitting up, scrolling through his phone. He didn’t look up as Ren dropped his rumpled shirt onto his bag, climbed back into bed, and lay down, hollow and hungry and exhausted.

“Bad dream?” Akechi asked, setting his phone aside.

“Mm.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Ren shut his eyes, shook his head. “Mm-mm.”

Akechi brushed Ren’s damp hair back from his forehead, so tenderly that anyone else who knew him would’ve been shocked. “Your teeth are chattering.”

So they were. Ren couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

“You should get under the covers, if you’re cold.”

“I’m not cold.”

“Feverish, then?”

“I’m not sick, Akechi,” Ren said, almost a snap. He grimaced, and covered Akechi’s hand with his own, pressing his palm flat to his forehead. “Sorry.”

“It was just a dream,” Akechi said. “It wasn’t real.”

Ren’s throat tightened. He lowered his arm, opened his eyes, watched the shadows shift and morph in the semidarkness. “What if it was?”

Akechi stiffened. “What?”

“What if,” Ren said, speaking slowly around the lump in his throat, the anxiety lodged like a stone against his collarbone, “we never got out, and the times when I’m with you or the others are just a lie?”

He didn’t believe that. Not really. Not entirely. Dreams were dreams, and reality was reality; he’d learned that from Maruki. But…on nights like this, after visions like that…he couldn’t help but wonder. If it wasn’t actually happening, somehow, somewhere, then how could his brain come up with all those details? The cold concrete against Joker’s shoulderblades, the nauseating slip of blood across his waistcoat…if he tried, he could still feel it, smell it, taste it. He could still see the look on Akechi’s face, first feral and then fond, first monstrous and then sweet, always bloody. Why would his brain conjure that, if not to warn him that something was wrong?

He didn’t dare look at Akechi. He didn’t want to see the scorn, the disgust, possibly the pity flickering in his eyes.

“Got out of where?” Akechi asked, and Ren could hear in his voice that his eyes had narrowed, his features sharpened to a foxlike point.

“Of Nyarlathotep’s reality.”

“Ah. And what are we doing in that reality?”

Ren swallowed, tongue scraping like sandpaper across the roof of his mouth. “Fighting, mostly. He makes you fight me. Makes you—hurt me.”

Akechi made a low, savage sound; his hand shifted from Ren’s forehead to rest on top of his head. “And in this scenario, the dreams are real, and this is…what? A fantasy we’ve concocted?”

“Maybe. Maybe this is what we do when we manage to get away.”

“Get away from what? To where? He knew every inch of the Metaverse. He could find us in an instant.”

“Then maybe he’s doing this, too,” Ren said dully. “Maybe this is how he makes us suffer. He lets us see what we could have together before he takes it away again.”

Akechi gripped Ren’s hair, tugged so that Ren had to meet his gaze, dark and fierce. “That is _not_ what’s happening.”

“How do you know?”

“I would never have allowed it. _You_ would never have allowed it.”

“It wouldn’t be up to us.”

“Stop it,” Akechi snarled, flinging himself upon him. He locked their hips together, their stomachs, their torsos, always a perfect fit, two pieces of the same puzzle; he hooked his elbows under Ren’s armpits, linked his fingers against the back of Ren’s neck so he could lift his face up, almost nose-to-nose. “You don’t really believe that. You can’t possibly think this isn’t real.”

Of course it was real. Akechi was solid and muscular and angry, and his breath was harsh against Ren’s lips, and his eyes were all Ren could see, reddish-black in the darkness. But the other Akechi had seemed real too, right up until he wasn’t. Ren put his arms around him, digging his nails into his ribs, burying his face in his shoulder.

“Nyarlathotep would never have let us have this,” Akechi said, his chest rumbling against Ren’s, his chin sharp in the crook of Ren’s neck. “He was a fool, but he wasn’t an idiot. He knew we were dangerous together. _Are_ dangerous together.”

Ren tried to answer, but all that came out was a strangled sound.

“I _love_ you,” Akechi added, like an accusation, like a curse; it was the first time he’d ever said it, and it broke Ren open, bright and brilliant. “He would never have let me admit that.”

Ren kissed Akechi’s hair, his ear, his cheek, clutching him closer, wrapping his legs around his waist. Akechi bore down on him with his full weight, pinned him to the bed, kissed him on the mouth. They twisted around each other, elbows digging into sides and nails into skin and knuckles into muscle, a confusing, painful tangle that Ren couldn’t begin to make sense of. He wasn’t sure who was holding who anymore, or whose tongue was skimming across whose neck, or whose teeth were biting whose lip. Ren wanted to lay him open, to climb inside of him, to tie their tendons together and fuse their bones so no one could ever come between them again. He wanted to close his hands around Akechi’s heart, feel it pumping against his bare palms, thrillingly alive; he wanted to know that no one else had ever done such a thing and no one ever would, at least not with Akechi, who loved him. Who _loved him_. He wanted—

The moment passed, too soon, always too soon, but Ren melted into Akechi as they both relaxed, rolling with him when he tipped onto his side.

“Thank you,” Ren murmured, already falling asleep again, warm and safe. “Thank you.”


	2. goro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **cw: sexual assault between adults (in a dream), _referenced_ sexual assault between minors**

Akechi woke up to the quiet _click_ of his door closing. He had barely registered the sound, and what its softness meant, when a dense, suffocating weight settled across him and a slimy voice purred in his ear, “I saw you watching me, Akechi-chan.”

Hidetaka Harada. He was two years older than Akechi, and beloved by their caretakers. So long as they were around, he was all smiles, rushing to help with a task here, a chore there, volunteering to look after the other orphans whenever he got the chance. But Akechi had heard (not directly, since no one talked to him) that if he caught you alone, he changed. Alone, he was a predator, all groping hands and drooling tongue. He’d never yet come after Akechi, but Akechi had always hoped he would. Akechi wanted to put the fear of God into him. Or, at least, the fear of Akechi.

“You were jealous, weren’t you?” Harada simpered, clammy hands sliding under Akechi’s shirt, spreading against his back. “Thought I was paying too much attention to Sato-chan. I was only trying to catch your eye, you know. You’re always ignoring me.”

“Mordred,” Akechi snarled. “ _Laevateinn_.”

Nothing happened.

Harada sniggered. “What was that?”

Akechi couldn’t breathe. He tried again, willing Mordred to appear, then Hereward, then Loki, then Robin Hood. No one came. The power had abandoned him. Did he have a knife? A gun? Anything to fight back with—?

Harada gripped Akechi’s shoulder and flipped him onto his back in one smooth, easy motion. He was so much bigger, heavier; not strong, he could barely lift a full bucket of water, but _sturdy_. Akechi felt boneless and cold, like a corpse, even as horror yawned in his throat and spread like oil across his skin. His limbs wouldn’t obey him. Fight back, he thought, swallowing hard as Harada’s fingers moved across his chest, his arms, his sides. Elbow him in the neck. Knee him in the balls. He’s not even holding you down. Fight back!

Harada straddled Akechi’s hips, his thighs thick and heavy as slabs of meat, and Akechi’s gorge surged in his throat as he felt the older man’s squashy, partly-formed erection press against his stomach. Harada grasped Akechi’s wrist, pushed his limp hand against the bulge, slid it back and forth to pump it larger, firmer.

“I saved you for last, Akechi-chan,” he panted, his voice thin and raspy. “Wanted to make sure I’d be good for you. You’re so pretty. Not like the others…”

Scream, Akechi willed himself, every nerve in his body standing on end. Howl at him. Scratch him. Bite him. Do _something_.

Harada was bucking against Akechi’s fingers, trapped member flopping inside his pants like a dead fish, moans catching in the back of his throat.

“So good,” he grunted, and bile flooded Akechi’s mouth as he lifted the elastic on Akechi’s pants, on his underwear, and palmed Akechi’s own traitorous, half-mast length. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you feel good too.”

No. No _no_ no. No no no _no no_ —

“Akechi,” Harada said, his voice suddenly completely different: deeper, warmer. Akechi’s heart swelled; his throat closed. “ _Goro_.”

The spell broke. Akechi sprang off the futon, across the room, whirled around—

And found himself standing in a tatami-matted room, surrounded by paper doors. His abandoned futon was rumpled into a heap. Ren, sitting up on his own futon, was staring at him, his cheeks soft and hair mussed, but his eyes bold and clear.

“You were dreaming,” Ren said.

Akechi fisted a hand in his hair, tried to make sense of what had happened. Or, rather, what hadn’t.

It was a nightmare, not a memory. Harada had never come for him. Akechi had lived in that orphanage for months, listening to the stories of what Harada was doing, had done. Akechi, all of twelve, had wished—really, genuinely wished—that Harada would show up in his room one night, so Akechi could twist his balls off and make him swear he’d never touch anyone without permission again. It hadn’t happened. Harada had looked right through him. And then Akechi was transferred again, and he’d never known if Harada had gotten what he deserved.

Akechi realized, with a start, that he was still half-hard. What was _wrong_ with him? He clapped his hand to his mouth to hold in the vomit, doubled over—

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Ren said, leaping up. “Do you need to be sick? Let’s—”

Akechi swallowed, with effort, burning his tongue and throat. “No.”

“I’ll go get you some water.”

“No,” Akechi repeated, nearly frantic, snagging his wrist. “Don’t—go.”

Ren touched his arm, his shoulder, his cheek, too gentle, too kind; Akechi’s skin crawled.

“Sit down,” Ren said, steering him back to his futon. Akechi sat, hunched his shoulders, clasped his hands against the back of his neck.

There was a knock, a soft “Excuse me,” and Yukiko Amagi slid open the door. “I’m so sorry,” she said, bowing on the tatami. “I heard raised voices. Is everything all right?”

Akechi’s instinct was to straighten up, hitch on the old mask, apologize for causing a disturbance; but his body continued to disobey him. Instead, Ren said, “Akechi’s not feeling well. Could you bring us some water, please?”

“Of course. Right away.”

Then Ren was kneeling beside him. “Akechi. Can I touch you?”

Yes of course he could, Akechi needed him to, he needed someone to hold him together or he was going to fly out of his skin; but also every muscle and tendon clenched, a full-body shudder, at the thought of anyone or anything touching him ever again. Which was absurd. _Nothing had happened_. It was a nightmare; it wasn’t real; of all the things he’d experienced, all the hateful, ugly aspects of humanity he’d seen, _that_ was not one of them. So why was he reacting like this?

Ren wisely kept his hands to himself. “What happened?”

Akechi was spared having to answer, at least for the moment, by Yukiko’s return, bearing a pitcher of water and a pair of cups. “If I can bring you anything else, please let me know,” she said. “I’m right down the hall.”

“Thanks, Yukiko.”

“I hope you feel better soon, Akechi,” she said, smiling at him, and closed the door.

Ren poured a cup of water and set it down. “Here.”

Akechi half expected his shoulders and arms to rebel, to refuse to move, but he was able to pick up the water and drink, washing away the lingering sourness coating the inside of his mouth. Some of the tension left him, too. He closed his eyes, listened to himself breathe. Ren waited, still and silent.

“Just a nightmare,” Akechi croaked. He coughed, winced, drank some more water. “I dreamt I was back at one of the institutions. There was an older boy there, Harada, who was abusing the younger boys. He was fourteen. I was twelve.”

He tipped his cup back, drained it. Ren refilled it for him.

“He never bothered me,” Akechi said. “Not in reality. But I wanted him to. I had grand plans for him. He would come after me, and I would make him understand, one way or another, that he could never hurt anyone again without my knowing about it. I was deeply disappointed that he never showed up.”

Ren made a soft sound.

“Part of me, also,” Akechi added, with a dawning dread, as his brain unfurled a chain of thought he’d never examined before, “wondered why—he didn’t—see me as a target. Like I—like I wanted—”

“No,” Ren said. “You didn’t want.”

“But if—why else—”

“You wanted to stop him,” Ren said. “You wanted to protect the others. That’s all.”

He was right. Akechi remembered the indignation, the hatred, burning in his chest like a fresh, hot coal as he listened to the kids around him whispering and weeping. He remembered lying awake the night before he was meant to move away, thinking, _Come and get me, you bastard. Fucking try it. I dare you. I dare you_.

And yet—and yet—

“And he never went after you,” Ren added, “because he could tell you’d fight back. He couldn’t risk that.”

“I didn’t, though.” A fresh wave of revulsion turned Akechi’s stomach. “I just laid there and let him—why couldn’t I move?”

“I don’t know.”

“It would have been so _easy_ ,” Akechi said, with some of his old edge, the ancient rage finally overpowering the nausea. “I wasn’t twelve in the dream. I was myself, as I am right now. I could have torn him to pieces with my bare hands. If I’d been able to call Mordred, I could have pulped him. But I was frozen. There was nothing I could do.”

Ren said nothing. Akechi finished his second cup, put it down.

“Thank you,” he muttered. “For being here.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d be. …Akechi?”

Akechi glanced at him.

“You can talk to me about whatever you need to,” Ren said, level, calm. “I’ll always listen. But I wish you’d also talk to a professional.”

Akechi sighed. “We’ve discussed this.”

“I know. I understand. But—”

“There’s no _but_ , Ren. How could I possibly talk to anyone about the things I did? I’d be arrested. Or institutionalized, for imagining worlds that don’t exist. You expect me to go in and lie about what I’ve seen so I can bitch about my childhood?”

“Maybe you don’t have to lie. Maybe Sae can put us in touch with someone. Or Mitsuru—”

“Mitsuru hates me.”

“Not anymore, Akechi, it’s been years.”

Akechi snorted. “You’d be surprised.”

“What about Yuki, then? Yuki saw a therapist.”

“You think he told them what really happened to him? You think he said he turned into a _door_?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never asked him. We could find out, though. Maybe there are people who understand, and who can be discreet.”

Akechi rolled his shoulders. “Assuming I want to talk to anyone. Assuming I need to. I’ve managed fine so far—”

“You haven’t,” Ren said quietly.

“What are you talking about?”

Ren took a long, deep breath. “It doesn’t happen nearly as often anymore, but…I know you have nightmares.”

Akechi stared at him.

“You’ve never woken up like this before, but I can tell. I can always tell.”

“Are you telling me,” Akechi breathed, “that for the past _two years_ , I’ve been disrupting your sleep, and you haven’t said anything?”

“You haven’t been disrupting my sleep,” Ren countered. “I wake up, and you’re tense, and I wait until you relax again, in case you need me to get involved. That’s all. I knew you’d be embarrassed, so I never—”

“ _Embarrassed_? That’s what you think this is?” Akechi exclaimed, gesturing at the flush climbing his neck, the wild rattle of his heart against his ribs. “I’m angry! At you! Why would you—you’re not a _saint_ , you’re not a _martyr_ , you didn’t have to—”

“Neither are you! You don’t have to suffer forever! There are people who can help you. I can’t do it myself, it wouldn’t be right, but I know—”

“The nightmares might never go away,” Akechi pointed out, sharp, cutting. “Even if I bare my soul to some shrink—”

“Don’t call us _shrinks_.”

“Fine, a counselor, a therapist, whoever—even if I go in there and unload all of this garbage, all of this _shit_ , there’s no guarantee it’ll help.”

“No, but it’s worth a try. It—” Ren broke off, rubbed his face, dragged his hands through his hair. It was the physical embodiment of _I don’t want to fight anymore_ : he was about to concede, and Akechi was torn between letting him, so he could escape from this conversation and go back to bed; and pushing the point, because he was still wrong-footed and furious. “I just—”

“You just, _you just_ , this isn’t about—”

“Yes it _is_!” Ren almost, _almost_ shouted; he reined himself in with visible effort, but the intensity of his gaze scalded Akechi, made him look away. “It is. You’re hurting, I can see that you’re hurting, and I hate it. _I hate it_. I’ve always hated it. All I’ve ever wanted to do was make you happy, give you space to heal.”

Akechi was so startled by this admission that all he could manage to say was, “I have healed.”

Ren sagged. “Yes, you have. You have. But…not from everything. Right?”

Akechi scoffed a laugh, faint, bitter. _Everything_. He couldn’t begin to enumerate everything he’d been through, therapist or no therapist. The first eighteen years of his life were layer upon layer upon layer of betrayal and hurt, a quagmire waiting to catch his heel and drag him down. Better to avoid it; safer to build a barrier around it and leave it behind. Except for nights like tonight, when it grew a mind of its own and crawled, many-legged and chittering, out into the light.

Ren brushed his arm. When Akechi didn’t flinch, he took his hand.

“I’m not saying you have to,” Ren said. “This isn’t an ultimatum. I really think it could help, but I won’t force you and I won’t bring it up again. Okay?”

Akechi turned his hand over, palm to palm, and twined his fingers through Ren’s.

“I’ll think about it,” he said. “I will.”

Ren pressed his thumb, a swift, comforting squeeze. “Argument over.”

“Argument over,” Akechi mumbled, rubbing his forehead.

“How’re you feeling now?”

“Absolutely exhausted.” Like someone had scooped out his insides, like they’d replaced his brain with spun sugar. He lay down on his back, grunting as his sore shoulders sank gently into the tatami. “I wonder how many of the others heard me?”

“Probably not many,” Ren replied, settling down beside him. “It’s Yukiko’s job to notice things like that. I’m sure everyone else slept right through it.”

“Everyone else” encompassed all of the known Persona-users in Japan. The Investigation Team, Shadow Operatives, and Phantom Thieves had made it a tradition (availability permitting) to meet up in Inaba once a year and spend a weekend at the Amagi Inn. Tomorrow was their last day in town before everyone scattered back to the seven winds of the earth.

Ren said something, but Akechi, already drifting, didn’t hear it. He shifted onto his side, dimly registered the duvet settling over his shoulders, Ren’s warmth washing over him as Ren snuggled closer.

“Ren,” he said, hoping he wasn’t slurring his words. “If I have another nightmare, wake me up.”

“I will,” Ren murmured, kissing his forehead, his eyelids, the corner of his mouth. “Go to sleep.”

Akechi did.


End file.
